The Things You Do To Me
by melodious-schemer33
Summary: Gelphie. What is this feeling?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Ok. This is my first fic. It's Gelphie (because they are just about THE CUTEST THING ON THE PLANET), so if you don't like, don't read. It's kinda prose-y, less plot than I intended, but I'll add that... later. Oh yea, and it switches POVs, beginning with Galinda, switching to Elphaba, and alternating from there. Feedback is appreciated and will encourage more writing. :)

Disclaimer: If I owned Wicked, you would know. Why? Because Galinda and Elphie would've kissed after "Popular."

The Things You Do To Me

It's the way your glasses are always perched so precariously on your sloped nose, resting right where cartilage becomes bone. It's the way you lounge jack-knifed on your dully colored bedspread, book in one hand, while the other rests idly on the flat plane of your stomach; the way your eyes drink in the words on the page while your mouth remains a straight line. You occasionally frown, the dark threads of your eyebrows knitting together, your lips pursed, and -- though it is rare -- when you smirk, you drape your eyelids over those deep brown irises, and the left corner of your mouth -- the one facing me -- turns upward. It's the way you turn the pages with the thumb of the hand that holds the book, not bothering to lift the other up a few inches, but leave it where it is, slightly above your diaphragm, riding out your slow breaths like an inner tube on a lake, gently rocking with the waves.

It's the way that when you finish reading, you snap the book shut, startling me, jolting me from my daydreams about you, immediately drawing my attention. I gaze at you, waiting for you to say something, but you only smile, a question behind your eyes: _what exactly are you staring at, my sweet? _

Not that I mind you staring at me. Not that I don't try to jut my lower lip out a little farther than usual, a flirtatious pout, or swing my hips a little more when you're watching. Not that I don't actually practice flipping my hair in the mirror when you're out at the Oz Dust. Not that I don't stare straight at your small frame when your back is turned. It's the way your dresses, though they are all different styles and colors, hug you, accentuating all the right curves. It's the way your eyes literally light up when you're excited, or the way they cloud over when you're tired, or darken when you're upset. It's the way your lips, lifted in a coy, coquettish half-smile, are able to captivate me and make me lose my train of thought. It's the way you skip around our dorm room, as if you're five years old and have found a pretty rock on the beach.

It's the way your golden curls, pure sunshine, fall in ringlets down your back, and when you brush them, you take your time, looking as if you're grooming yourself just for the fun of it. You sit on that bright comforter of yours, legs tucked neatly underneath your petite frame, torso slightly turned, so that your right shoulder -- bare porcelain in the dim lights of our room -- faces me, and I can observe freely the back of your neck, the cut of your jaw, the bones beneath the dress above the skin that I so desperately wish to lay my hands on. But then you are finished, and you lay your brush down beside you, and snap your head around to look at me, catching me gazing longingly at you. But instead of inquiring, you merely smile, a sudden awareness in your face: _you want it too?_

I want you to kiss me. I want to feel your soft, jade lips touched tenderly to my own. I want to hold your long, elegant hands, and toy with your bony fingers.

I want to kiss you. I want those supple, pale pink lips pressed against mine. I want to hold you in the night, protecting you from the world and it's horrors.

_What is this feeling, so sudden and new? I felt the moment I laid eyes on you... _

_My pulse is rushing..._

_My head is reeling..._

_My face is flushing... _

_What is this feeling?_

...So should I continue? Reviewers get cookies. :) lol.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Plotlines are bitches. Please pardon my French (I don't speak French), but they really are. I have read and re-read this little ficlet countless times, I really like it, I've thought and thought about adding another chapter, and ultimately deciding every time that it would just take away from the first one.

Until now. (Insert your choice of dramatic music.)

This is improvisation (what a surprise), just like the first chapter. Don't expect a plotline, or much of a conflict (other than "OZ DAMMIT WILL YOU KISS ME ALREADY"), but _do_ expect a lot of description, and some funky switches regarding point of view. Also, my undying gratitude to those who have been reviewing – it looks like I don't appreciate it, considering I haven't updated this in an amount of time I'd rather not quantify, but I really, really do. Go buy yourselves a cookie and pretend I gave it to you as a thank-you. And while you're at it, pretend that this fic isn't filled with run-on sentences, if that kind of grammatical error bothers you. My last request: enjoy chapter two.

Oh and BY THE WAY, I came up with a solution to the POV switches ('cause the horizontal lines suggested in the reviews weren't working). Elphie's voice is in _italics_, and Galinda's voice is, well… **bold.**

Disclaimer: Do I even have to put this here? You know I don't own Wicked. If I did, do you really think I would've let Fiyero even exist as a romantic possibility? No. That train wreck belongs to Gregory Macguire and Steven Shultz.

_The evening begins with a storm. She is out, no doubt gallivanting around town with her social acquaintances, while I am here, hiding from the rain that is so violently demanding to come in through the window. I pretend, for myself, that I'm shuddering from the chill that lingers both inside and outside (for it is cold; this is no wimpy spring shower) and not out of fear for the hard tapping of wind-thrown water against glass. I move away from the window, lanky legs shuffling across the floor, arms wrapped protectively against my bony chest. Idly, I pick up the leather-bound textbook that I had tossed carelessly onto my desk in my rush to get out of the rain earlier this afternoon, and I slowly slide my bare feet across the floor until I reach my bed. Sparsely covered though it is, it's comfortable, and I collapse onto the sheets, immediately drawing one knee up to my torso, pushing my glasses up the incline of my nose, and resting my right hand on my stomach. I flip open the book, inhaling the soothing scent of yellowing pages, and begin to read. Which, of course, is when she chooses to walk in._

**Honestly, I had expected her to be asleep – she usually is at this time of night, seeing as she's got an early class on Monday mornings – though a small part of me (and maybe it wasn't quite so small any more, now that we've become friends) had been hoping all evening that she would be awake when I came back. She doesn't move her head when I open the door to our dorm, but I can see her watching me out of the corners of her eyes. I drop my bag on the floor, and step gingerly towards the bathroom, trying to keep the water that has accumulated in my hair, my dress, and my shoes from dribbling on the floor; a hazard to her bare feet. Just as I'm about to close the door to the bathroom, I glance back at her, and, to my heart's delight, her chocolate-hued eyes have returned to the page in front of her, and a small smile has crept onto her verdant lips. Though I do not know why she's smiling (for all I know, it could be out of amusement at my appearance), I almost squeal with glee as the door clicks shut behind me. **

Whoever said beauty came in the form of dry hair and a freshly pressed dress was terribly mistaken, _I think to myself as she delicately steps through the doorframe into the room and not-so-delicately dumps her purse on the floor. She's drenched from head to toe, and all the more breathtaking because of it. Her dress hangs loosely off her perfectly sloped shoulders, and, though it's not see-through (I thank and curse the Unnamed God for this), the ruffled skirt at the bottom is clinging damply to her shapely legs. I try not to inhale sharply at this realization, and instead continue to glace at her out of the corner of my eye. She's tiptoeing carefully towards the bathroom, and I guess that it's because she doesn't want to get the floor wet. At this thought, I smile, and look back down at my book before I start to blush. I've been crushing on my effervescent roommate for quite some time, and my objective is not to stop my feelings, only mask them. _

**I wiggle around in front of the mirror for a few minutes, releasing my joy at seeing that dazzling smile that few others have had the pleasure to witness, before shedding my dress and hanging it from the shower head and discarding my shoes under the sink where they won't harm her in their waterlogged state. I rub myself down with a fluffy, pink towel, and slip a cool, satin nightgown over my head. I pace over to the mirror above the sink where I prepare to observe the state of my hair. My blonde curls always get horribly frizzy in the wintertime, so I'm expecting to find a mane of static fluff, but, to my surprise, my hair has only become curlier.** And more attractive_,_ **I think. I grin slyly to myself, hoping that she will notice. My mind does not allow me to begin to berate myself for my crush. We have agreed – my mind and I – that that is, in fact, what this fervid feeling I have for my green roommate is. Oh well. Stranger things have happened. With a quick toss of those sleek, golden curls, I skip out of the bathroom and onto my bed.**

_The door to the bathroom swings open and out she flounces, dry and dressed for bed. She springs onto her pink, down comforter, sinking lower and lower until she reaches the actual mattress. Her face is pressed into a poofy, pink pillow, and before she rolls over to face me, I smile to myself at her endearing actions. She's like a small child when she's excited; she grins and bounces and squirms with glee. Though I could never imagine myself practicing such ridiculous antics, I find the fact that she does absolutely adorable. Before I can catch myself and slide my façade back into place, she's turned onto her side and is staring intensely at me with her bright blue eyes. I try to blink, try to speak, but I can only stare at her, her alabaster skin, her delicate frame wrapped tightly in the thin material of her nightgown. Finally, I clear my throat, and ask, "Aren't you cold, in that skimpy little thing?" _

**After a few minutes of silent observation (though it can hardly be counted as observation, she's pretty much undressing me with her eyes), she asks if I'm cold, and frowns at my nightgown. **Hardly_**,**_** I think, **not with you staring at me like that_**. **_**I blush, and shake my head, for once unable to speak. She raises her eyebrows slightly at this, and turns back to whatever is so interesting in that damned book. I pout to myself, hoping that she would have said more. I try desperately to think of a way to get her to pay attention to me, but after ten minutes of heavy silence, my efforts still prove to be fruitless. I figure she's covered at least twenty pages in the span of six hundred seconds, and that soon she will extend one long, emerald arm towards her bedside lamp, and deftly turn the knob below the light bulb with her spindly fingers, extinguishing the light that emanates from her side of the room. However, she does not.**

_Feeling the silence weighing down on me like a thick blanket in stifling hot weather, I ask about her evening. "Did you enjoy your time out, Miss Galinda?" I inquire, still looking down at the same page that I was ten minutes ago.__I wonder if she can hear my voice quavering. If she can, she doesn't show it as she absently replies that yes, her night was fine. I nod, not knowing what else to say or do, and resume staring at my book. After that short exchange, silence reigns once more, and I find that I'm unbearably frustrated. Why can't I _talk_ to her? What's blocking my ability to speak? I feel as if my tongue is a brick, useless and obstructive behind my tightly clamped lips. She, on the other hand, seems loose and carefree, as always, albeit slightly preoccupied._

**Did I enjoy my time this evening indeed. Could she come up with nothing else, really? I sigh and squirm, my frustrations manifesting physically as my arms flail. She seems to be unaware that I have moved at all, eyes glued to that stupid book, limbs stiff. She's such a tease. Yes, hoping that she would be awake when I got home was a long shot, but if she's going to smile when I walk in the door she should at least try to come up with some interesting subject matter. I, for one, know that she has no interest whatsoever in my social activities. I huff and furrow my brow. If she won't make the effort, I will. **

A/N: What's the consensus? Leave the rest to the imagination, or continue? (P.S. Thanks again to those who reviewed! It really does matter to me!)


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